An Education
by ennabellapotter
Summary: Things I absolutely did not expect the summer before my Seventh year at Hogwarts: 1) The Potters, infamously wealthy pureblood wizarding family, moves into a mini-mansion down the street from the lowly Evans'. 2) James Potter becomes a friend. 3) James Potter becomes a friend, plus other things.
1. Chapter 1

Things I expected the summer before my Seventh year at Hogwarts:

1) A three-month period of dealing with horrid Petunia.

2) Supremely uncomfortable family dinners with Petunia and her even more horrid beau, Vernon.

3) Long, solitary bike rides.

4) Saturday coffee dates with Marlene and Dorcas.

5) Mum pressuring me to give her details about my breakup with Owen.

6) Uncomfortable letters from Owen.

7) Absolutely no thoughts about fucking git, Owen. Except when he wrote uncomfortable letters.

8) Dad pressuring me about what I wanted to do with my life beyond school.

9) Me avoiding thinking about life beyond school.

10) Sunrises and sunsets.

Things I absolutely did _not_ expect the summer before my Seventh year at Hogwarts:

1) The Potters, infamously wealthy pureblood wizarding family, moves into a min- mansion down the street from the lowly Evans'.

2) James Potter becomes a friend.

3) James Potter becomes a friend, plus other things.

* * *

"You're joking, right?"

"I'm not kidding." James looks at me from across the table, his eyebrows knit together in anxiety. "And I'd appreciate if you didn't look at me like I just walked out of a mental institution."

I immediately attempt to contort my face into an expression that doesn't display absolute shock.

James Potter has just informed that he's a virgin.

Excuse me for having trouble processing the fact.

I search my mind rapidly for an instance of hard evidence I'd had prior that proved his supposed _non_ virgin state. I find nothing absolute, just assumption.

"But, I mean, you've dated before," I start. I'm listing them out in my mind: Ruby, Elizabeth, Amelia, Gwyneth. Possibly more I'm not remembering.

James nods. "Yeah."

I open my mouth, then close it. James is examining me closely. I look away from him and down at my tea.

We're at a diner, downtown, our unofficial favorite place. I don't know how we first ended up here, or why we return so often, just like I can't pinpoint exactly where our friendship began. End of May? June? It started slowly, uneasily, but he made me laugh unexpectedly one afternoon and then I began to notice that he was different without a constant crowd around him, and he would join me on bike rides and suddenly I wasn't constantly seeking to avoid him so much as constantly seeking his company.  
And now here we were, somehow thrust into a conversation I'm not exactly sure how to navigate.

"Well." I pour cream into my tea and stir it.

James leans back in his chair. "Are you surprised?"

"Well," I say again. "Yes."

His lips quirk into a smile. His face hasn't changed since first year so much as strengthened − the cut of his cheekbones higher, the curve of his nose sharper. His summer hair is longer than school-year hair, brushing his temple and light from sun. "Can I turn the question on you?"

I feel my cheeks redden instantaneously. I think (against my will) about Owen.

"Um," I laugh nervously. "Well no, I'm not."

James raises his eyebrows and nods slowly. "Interesting."

"Interesting?"

He shrugs. "Yeah, it's interesting."

I sigh. "Is that a bad thing, that you're so interested in it?"

"Well, do you think so?"

I roll my eyes. "James, what are you trying to say?"

"I'm trying to say that−" He sighs, running a hand through his summer hair. Then he leans forward, folding his arms on the table, looking into my eyes. His gaze is accosting. (Against my will) I'm transfixed. "I'm trying to say that I...I want experience, you know?"

I try not to betray that my heart skips a beat. "You mean..." I lean forward and lower my voice. "Sexual experience?"

"Yes, Lily, _sexual experience_ ," he shakes his head and laughs. "You don't have to say it like it's some big secret that I'm seventeen and have got lots of raging hormones."

None of this is news to me. But why is he having this conversation with _me_? Unless−

 _Hm._

I take a sip of my tea. I'm infinitely more aware of our knees are touching beneath the table. I'm infinitely more aware of how fit he's become.

"Well, it sounds as if you may need a, um, instructor, of sorts," I try, tucking my hair behind my ear nervously.

I don't think James was prepared for that response. His face is a canvas of surprise. "Um," he attempts to control the look.

There's only two other people in the diner, a man and woman, clearly lovers. For a moment, I'm mesmerized by the way the man is stroking the woman's fingers atop the table. I imagine (against my will) James caressing my fingers with his own.

I break my gaze from the pair. James still looks lost.

"James," I'm suddenly feeling both confident and confused about the confidence. "What if I helped you gain...some experience?"

Now he looks like I threw him into a jungle without a map or water. I've really done it.

It's hard to ignore the fact that for a long time he had feelings for me. But sixth year had brought Owen for me and Gwyneth for him, and I had been relieved that he'd finally moved on.

But now here we are, unattached and unexpectedly friends, and I had somehow just offered to sleep with him?

What the _hell_ had gotten into me.

James clears his throat once, then twice, then finally says, "Um, are you...offering to, er, _educate_ me?"

I almost laugh, but reconsider. I'm insane, but I nod. "I guess so."

The lovers at the other table are kissing now. _Godamn it_.

James definitely notices, too. I try not to observe his lips too obviously.

I'm suddenly self-conscious of my own bravado."Well, look, that was kind of forward of me, to assume you'd want to−I mean, just, why don't we forget that I−"

"Okay."

I find his eyes level with my own. "What?"

"Okay, I'm willing."

I want to smile, but that feels a bit odd given the situation. "You are?"

His eyes are laughing now. "Are _you_?"

His forearms are insanely defined. When did that happen? Who has such _fit_ forearms?

"Well, yes."

The lovers get up to leave.

* * *

"I expected more...Quidditch posters, I guess."

"Sorry to disappoint, Evans."

James' room isn't nearly as large as I figured it would be, given the size of the Potter family home. It's in fact no larger than my own bedroom, and has neat blue walls and a bed with white sheets. There's a cherrywood desk and armoire, and his broom leans against a wall next to what I assume is his school trunk. The whole place is spotless.

"I expected it to be messier, actually. Are you this well-organized at school?"

James laughs. He's sitting on his bed, leaning back on his arms. "No, because my mum doesn't live at school with me."

I'm stalling and I know it. Our talk in the cafe had seemed almost hypothetical, but here we were, and I was unprepared. Mentally. Physically, I'd spent an irrational amount of time choosing an outfit that made it _seem_ as though I hadn't put any effort into it.

James is eyeing me because I think he knows I'm stalling. My hands are clamped together behind my back. "So listen, I figured we'd start slow, yeah? Ease into...the real stuff."

James suppresses a smile because I sound like I swallowed a canary. "Alright."

He looks very young. He's wearing a white tshirt and jeans and no socks. Carefree summer James. He's so different than I expected.

I decide to be candid with him. "I'm feeling a bit of anxiety about this."

He nods. "I know, me too."

This makes me feel a little better, so I approach the bed and sit down next to him so we're aligned leg-for-leg. Up close, I can see my reflection in his glasses. "Maybe we could start by just...kissing?"

He nods slowly, eyes caught on mine. " But I've got to give you forewarning. I've been told by several girls that, er, well, I'm not very _good_ at it."

"Is that so?" I say, unable to stop the smirk that forms on my lips. The image I had of James before, some image of him being this untouchable, irresistible sex maniac, has fallen flat. He's just like the rest of them. Flying by the seat of his pants.

"Yes. So I apologize. In advance."

I'm leaning forward now. "Just start slow, okay? Nothing fancy. Just...kiss me."

He pauses. Then draws in a breath and kisses me.

He listened, and it's just a kiss. Lips-on-lips. And it's not bad, but it's not great, either. I pull back. "Okay, that was fine."

"Fine?" He asks, his eyes laughing.

"Yes, fine. Now do it again, but longer this time. No tongue."

He leans forward and our lips meet again. At this point, his only advantage seems... unreasonably soft lips. Very pillow-like. I'm lost in this thought and don't notice that he's pulled back, breathing against my mouth for a moment, then pulling it back again. This action is unexpectedly and beguilingly sensual.

I'm caught off guard, so I disconnect enough to say, "Okay, try tongue now."

I suppose I should feel weird about this situation. But the weirdest part is that I _don't_ feel weird about it.

James hesitates.

"C'mon, I'll help, it's okay."

He seems encouraged by this and goes for it. His mouth opens on mine and I feel his tongue attempting some sort of war with my own. I laugh into the kiss and pull back.

He looks wounded. "Jesus, Lily, I told you."

"No it's okay, I'm sorry," I quit laughing. "Just−just don't be so aggressive, okay? Softly. Be softer."

He tries again, and it's softer and slower, and it even sends a small tingle down my spine, which surprises me and results in my hand reaching to his jaw.

This makes him retreat, like he's doing something wrong. "Was that better?"

"Yes." My voice is bizarrely low, so I clear my throat, pointedly ignoring the spine-tingle. "Yes, that was much better. Did it..feel better to you?"

He seems preoccupied by my hand on his jaw, and nods. "Yeah. It felt nice."

"Try again," I say. "And don't be afraid to, er, touch me, okay?"

"Okay," He seems uneasy about that bit, but my thumb acts on its own accord and strokes against his jaw, which propels him forward. Our mouths meet again, and he brings his hand onto my arm, tentatively, which is kind of awkward, and I'm smiling around his mouth again so he pulls away.

"What now?"

I stop laughing. "I'm sorry! Just," I take my hand from his jaw and put it on his hand, guiding it from arm to my waist. He looks down at it, and his grip softens. "If you want a girl to enjoy kissing you, you're going to have to make her feel like you're invested."

My waist is warm where he holds it. He raises his free hand to brush a strand of hair away from my face and behind my ear. He curves the fingers into the red, pulling my lips back to his. I experience another spine tingle.

We sit like this for a while. I teach not with my voice but with my tongue. I force him to slow down the cadence of each kiss, to savor the movement. His hands feel less and less stiff, moving through my hair, up and down my arms, over my thighs. I skim my fingers over his chest and up the back of his neck. His hair is like a dream. He is solid and soft all at once.

I enjoy myself probably too much.

After a while, I pull away. We are entwined from feet to forehead. I don't want it to end, but I also don't want to go further. Of course, my body feels otherwise. James' hand on my thigh sends tingles to places other than my spine.

He's giving me a look I can't identify. "How was that?"

I let my hands slip from his hair and down his shoulders. "Not bad, Potter."

He beams and offers to walk me home.

The sun hangs low in the sky. When we reach my house, he turns to me. "I want to say thank you, is that strange?"

"No," I laugh. "You're welcome, I guess."

We look at each other and I know what we're both thinking about.

"Maybe next time, we can do that...with less clothing on?"

James swallows visibly, but nods, trying to act confident. "Okay." The late-afternoon sun colors his hair golden. He was made for summer sun.

He looks at me for a moment more, than turns to leave, but changes his mind and faces me once again, a question in his eyes. "One more?"

I had wanted it, too. I nod.

When he kisses me this time, I let the spine-tingle flood my entire body. It lasts only a moment, then he turns to leave.

I watch him go, thinking only of how fucked I am for having agreed to this.

* * *

"Of course I've seen a girl topless before. I live with Sirius Black nine months out of the year."

I roll my eyes. "I mean in person, not in some dirty magazine."

"I mean that too! Did you not just hear me say I live with Sirius Black?"

I roll my eyes again. I can only imagine the amount of girls Sirius Black brings back to the Marauder's dormitory in a school year.

We're at my house this time, lying on my bed. After a series of kisses that was meant to last a moment but somehow lasted forty-five minutes, I pulled away desperate for air, and told James to take off my shirt. He'd hesitated.

I sit up, disconnecting myself from him. "Do I have to take it off myself, then?"

James scrambles upwards. "No, no, I can do it."

I raise my eyebrows to disguise how jumpy my pulse has become.

I tried to wear a shirt an easy one to remove, but he still fumbles with the buttons, and I try not to smile. He pauses when he sees my cleavage peeking through, and looks up at me. "Are you sure your parents aren't home?"

I roll my eyes a third time. "Yes, I'm sure! And my soundproofing charms are infallible, just in case. I'm not top of our class for nothing, okay?"

James doesn't seem entirely appeased, but returns his attention to my shirt. When it's all the way unbuttoned, I slip it off my shoulders and throw it on the floor. James looks like he has swallowed a firecracker.

He finds my eyes. "May I?"

I take a second to contemplate the weird truth: I'm on my bed topless with James Potter, and he's asking so damn politely if he can take off my bra.

"Please."

He struggles, as I suspected he would. The clasp of the bra is a source of frustration that drives his eyebrows together. "Tricky piece of machinery, huh?" He bites his lip in concentration. When it falls away beneath his fingers, his face alights with success.

The expression falls away into something soft as I shrug my bra off and toss it aside.

For a second I'm self-conscious. I didn't plan on feeling vulnerable at this moment, because this arrangement is supposed to be for his education rather than my embarrassment. But his gaze makes me heat and I'm immediately thinking about how naked I am, how lopsided my tits are, how they're a bit too large to fit my proportions, how pale my skin is compared to his, how−

My tangle of insecure thoughts didn't allow me to notice how he had leaned forward to press his fingers against my bare stomach. His skin is cool against mine. And then he tilts his lips onto the side of my neck. I was so busy thinking myself into oblivion that I'd given him no instruction. But he is acting on instinct, his lips skimming downwards as his fingers drag upwards.

I'm feeling a mix of things. Tingles abound.

He pauses at the very place I want him most to touch with both lips and fingers. He looks up. "May I?"

"Please." I'm embarrassed that this time it's less of a polite response and more of a low rumbling need.

James might be new at this, but I can't remember a time that Owen was particularly _good_ at kissing my breasts. One of his hands rounds one breast, his thumb sweeping the nipple. His lips visits the other breast, open-mouthed. Every sensation collides.

I'm floundering. "Less teeth, James, more tong−oh."

His tongue obeys. It's − sublime. I try to remember Owen paying any sort of detailed attention to anything besides what he found between my legs.

I let James stay where he is for a while, which I justify by thinking it's mainly for his educational benefit rather than my pleasure. Which is, of course, only half true.

When he finally lifts his lips he's got a wicked smile on his face, which I bring to my mouth and devour. "Did you−" he attempts to speak but I'm suddenly ravenous for his hands on my bare back and my fingers in his hair. "Like that? Was that−" He's having a hell of a time finishing his sentence with my tongue in his mouth. "Lily, c'mon, was I−"

"For the love of Merlin," I breathe, against his cheek, my head lolling at his neck. "I didn't even _tell_ you to do any of that."

He laughs against my shoulder. "Okay, I'll take that as a good sign."

I kind of want to bed him right then and there.

* * *

A/N: hey guys! let me know what you think of this ! xo


	2. Chapter 2

In the beginning of July the Potter family goes on holiday to the coast of Italy and I'm stuck in England thinking about what the hell is wrong with me.

I had offered to help James gain sexual experience with every intention of keeping myself distanced emotionally. But the illusion of me being able to do something like that had shattered probably the moment we first kissed, and I'd been profusely denying any emotional involvement ever since.

I'm smart, yes. But sometimes I'm _thick_ , also. That I am willing to admit.

I have lunch with Marlene in the hopes that she may be able to talk me out of making any more mistakes than I already have. We go to a pub near her house in North Yorkshire. Having been gifted with a face that enchants every adult and child alike, Marlene orders a pint despite her lack of legality. She is radiant in a fuchsia sundress and yellow-gold waves. The waiter − star struck − brings her a pint and me an iced tea.

I try to bring up the topic as subtly as I can. "Have you ever, um, slept with someone just for the sex?"

Marlene nearly spits out her beer. "What the _fuck_ do you mean by that?"

I realize that I've accidentally referenced her exact relationship with Sirius Black. "Okay, that was a stupid question." I take a sip of my drink and try to rephrase. "I mean, how do you do that without...getting attached? Emotionally, I mean."

"Lily," Marlene says, carefully. "Why are you asking me this?"

I shrug. "No reason, I'm just wondering. How that is for you−er, emotionally."

When she doesn't answer right away, I look up. She appears intensely suspicious. "What are you up to, Evans?"

I hesitate.

Marlene McKinnon has been my closest friend since we found each other crying in the Gryffindor common room our very first night at Hogwarts. But despite the longevity of our friendship, I am painstakingly aware of how dangerous it will be to reveal my current attachment to James Potter.

"What I am about to divulge to you, Marls," I begin, my voice low. "Must remain absolutely, deeply _secret_. Do you understand?"

"Bloody hell, Lils," She's shaking her head in disbelief. "Who are you having emotionless sex with?"

I think about three nights ago. I think about James kissing me like he had something to prove, feeling my breasts with such careful fingers. How he made me forget, if only for a second, why were there in the first place. I'm thinking that the word 'emotionless' doesn't exactly fit.

"Well, we're not actually sleeping together just yet, mostly just kis−"

Her eyes are razors. " _Evans_."

I bite my lip, and sigh. "You're going to murderme."

Marlene's eyes widen to saucer-size almost instantaneously. " _No_."

I search my memory to confirm to myself that _yes_ it was James Potter I was kissing three days ago. Kissing for a long time. Kissing and _enjoying_ the kissing.

"Explain."

I explain. From weird beginning of friendship to the impossibly shocking discovery of virginity, etc, right up until most recent topless kissing. I leave out the spine-tingles in between.

When I'm finished explaining, Marlene leans back into her chair, dumbfounded. "Let me get this straight." She begins, crossing her arms over her chest. "You agreed to help _James Potter_ gain _sexual experience_."

It sounds so incredibly stupid out loud. I nod, sheepishly.

"And let me get another things straight," Marlene adds. "You did so without hesitation or thought, and haven't second-guessed yourself since."

"Well, I'm second guessing myself right now, actually."

Marlene is smiling like she's hiding something.

I glare. "What?"

She shakes her head. "You colossal idiot."

"If you've got something to say, just say it."

She rolls her eyes. "It's nothing. So when are you two gonna shag?"

I slump back in my seat. "I don't know. I don't want to rush the process. He's learning, after all."

"You know what?"

"Hm?"

In a courageous effort, Marlene downs the rest of her pint. "I bet he'll be dynamite in the sack."

I cross my legs and lean forward. "What makes you say that?"

"Well, you're the one that's been snogging him senseless, you tell me."

I rub my lips together at the memory of snogging him senseless.

"And, I mean, have you seen the kid with your eyes, Lils?" Marlene is incredulous. "He's _fit_. He's fucking _fit_."

She's not wrong.

"And if I had to hazard a guess based on his general height," she scrunches her eyes together like she's calculating an Arithmancy problem. "I'd say he's well endowed."

My breath catches in my throat. "Godamn it, Marlene. Will you stop envisioning that in your head?"

"Oh don't worry, Lils, I would never." she laughs again, yellow-gold waves falling over her shoulders with the vibration. "I'm not the one that signed up to be his sex tutor, alright? That's you."

I bury my head in my hands.

* * *

"If I'd spent that much time in the sun, I would look like a tomato. You−you look like a Roman _prince_."

James and I are laying on a blanket in my backyard, little to no space between us, blinking up at the haze of mid-morning. He laughs. "First of all, thanks for the compliment. And secondly, I have always resented how easily I tan, just so you know."

"No you haven't, you _love_ it."

A pause. "Okay, you're right."

I smile. Despite his newly sun-kissed skin, I'm not resentful. I'm happy he's back. I don't say _I missed you_ because he's absolutely not allowed to know. I am barely able to allow my own self to recognize the fact.

"Enough about me." James rolls his head to the side to look at me. "What did you do while I was off getting tan?"

His hair is nearly brushing the tops of his glasses. I resist the urge to stroke it between my fingers. "Nothing exciting. I read three books and got a new set of robes for school."

His smile is electric. "Sounds fascinating to me, actually. Care to explain it all, in great detail?"

I'm not interested in doing that at all. I'm being foolish, instead, turning completely onto my side. "I'm afraid such a thing would probably bore you to death."

"Death?" He breathes, my nearness seeming to distract him. "What's that?"

I could stop myself, but I don't. I reacquaint our lips.

I suppose there was nothing stopping James from meeting a pretty Italian girl and using her as a learning experience. But his kiss tells me he hasn't done this since we last did this.

"Parents?" He pulls away suddenly, glancing anxiously towards the door to my house.

"Work." I sit up, and so does he. Then I stand, and he follows. I offer him my hand.

He takes it. "Wait − Petunia?"

I shake my head and lead him towards the door. "With Vernon."

James chuckles. "You really don't like him, do you?"

"Don't even get me started."

He doesn't.

In my room, I lower the blinds halfway to allow for half-sun. James takes off his shoes and puts them politely in a corner. I politely shove him onto the bed, sitting astride his hips. His eyes are wide, but he pulls me closer and tucks his hands into my hair.

The kissing prelude commences with fervor. This time, I willingly forget that I'm supposedly the first girl he's gotten this right with.

I momentarily feel bad for the other girls. If they'd taken just a little time to tell him what they liked − well. They wouldn't have been so unsatisfied, probably.

My sleeveless linen shirt allows James to wander my back, hands warm on my skin. His fingers skim the edge of my shorts, and in a brave turn of events, his hands venture onto my bum, grasp softly. I encourage this self-taught behavior by pushing my hips into his and nipping at his lower lip.

James appreciates this. He lets me know by grasping more intensely and lifting his hips to meet mine. He's discovered that if he runs his tongue along the length of my lips before capturing them for a long embrace evokes a tightening in my grip on him, or sometimes a wispy sigh. He does this more and more.

Damn him for being such a quick study.

I push my hands on his chest so I can sit up. His eyes follow me, hands falling to my thighs. I rid myself of my shirt and bra, then turn my attention to his shirt.

"May I?"

He laughs. "Please."

He props himself up so I can work the shirt up and off. His bare chest is glorious. I am propelled towards him again, and his hips rise as an offering. I accept, gliding against him in a way that has already had a profound effect.

I slide my lips off his mouth and onto his jaw, working my way down his neck. His hands return to my arse, assisting in my leisurely undulations. His crotch is straining in his jeans. My face is heating rapidly. My bloodstream is on fire.

My lips drift from neck to collarbone. James makes a sound almost like a word, almost like a moan. "Hmm?" I say through my travels down his clavicles. "What was that?"

My tits brush against his chest. The sensation is more arousing than I initially anticipated.

" _Lils_."

This is the first time I've heard that variation of my name from his lips. The sound is smoky and I wasn't prepared for it.

I solider on, attempting nonattachment.

I'm moving from clavicles to navel, and am angry for only half a moment at his ridiculous physical strength. Roman Prince, indeed. Greek God could hazard a comparison, possibly. Demigod?

I'm spiraling.

I find myself kissing along the edge of his jeans, just above the bulge I caused through slow, shameless gyrations. I lift my mouth and meet his eyes. He's on his elbows, hair out of kilter, eyes dark. He's fine. He's fucking _fine_. I'm transcended.

I cut the transcendence short and unbutton the jeans.

My eyes ask, _okay?_ His eyes return, _fuck yes._

The jeans come off and hit the floor. The underwear follows quickly. I turn to face the result.

I'm thinking _oh hell. Marlene was right_.

And I'm suddenly panicked, having not done the act that I'm about to do in a long time. But I have to remind myself that _I'm_ the teacher in this scenario, and that I'm supposed to know what I'm doing. I can't let on that the back of my neck is sweating. I can't let on that his wondrous expression is giving me a kiss-less spine-tingle.

So without overture, I lean forward to take his cock in my mouth.

James chokes on his breath.

I may be slightly out of practice, but he certainly can't tell the difference. All he knows is my tongue and my lips and my hand and my overwhelming combination of using all the elements to my advantage and to his astonishment. I'm kissing, tasting, teasing, stroking − it's all coming back. Owen was a particular pain in the arse about this performance, always whining about it.

James isn't whining. He's whimpering. One of his hands roams my hair, anchoring me to earth. His sounds push me forward. Owen was self-conscious about vocalizing his pleasure. If James is embarrassed about doing just that, he isn't letting on.

And I'm less than shocked to realize how much it's turning _me_ on.

 _Fuck_.

He doesn't last very long. He falls apart in my mouth. As I sit up, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, I can tell he's surprised I allowed this to happen. He scrambles to an upright position, wrapping his arms around my waist and consuming my mouth. _I'm_ surprised that he allows this to happen. Owen was particularly sensitive about his mouth on mine after mine had been elsewhere.

I am slowly realizing how much of an arsehole Owen really was.

The after-kissing is white-hot, and makes me wish I wasn't trying to take things slow. Dangerously, and without my own permission, I'm imagining his mouth on my cunt. Imagining him inside me. I shiver.

James pulls away. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

His eyes roam my face as if he knows I'm lying.

"I'm serious, James." I assure him, sliding my hands so they rest on his shoulders. "What are _you_ thinking about?"

He hesitates. "Well, I'm thinking about how amazing that was."

I bite the wide smile my mouth forms. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," he responds. "And I'm also thinking that I didn't think girls liked to do that."

"Well, we don't, really." I laugh. "But I'm here to help you learn. It's all a part of the process."

His hands are running slowly up my back. His eyes are liquid light, amber-hazel-gold. I can tell something is bothering him. It eats away at the silence for longer than I'm comfortable with. Then he says, quietly, "Is that the only reason you're here?"

This catches me off guard.

Because of course it isn't. I'd be thick to think he wouldn't notice. But if he's noticing that I'm getting more out of this experience than I'd originally intended, than I'm not hiding it well enough, and I certainly don't want to discuss the topic with him. Especially given his history of feelings for me.

"James," I say, slowly, warningly.

He shakes his head and lowers his eyes. "I'm sorry. That was uncalled for." His hands slip off my back. I miss the contact the moment it's gone.

He looks so defeated, and for a second I desperately want to tell him that it's okay, that yes, I'm more invested that I thought, that it's not his fault, it's _my_ fault.

But I don't. I just say, "Hey, don't worry about it."

After he's gone, I cry a little bit, not exactly knowing why.


	3. Chapter 3

Five days later I haven't seen James for five days.

Tuesday night I contemplate how to handle to situation I find myself in.

On one hand: this doesn't mean anything at all, because the initial arrangement, though weirdly based on an friendship, was meant to be purely sexual.

On the other hand: not hearing from him is driving me positively crazy. I'm going _mental._

And why?

I call Marlene. She hates talking on the phone, as it's 'a ridiculous Muggle inconvenience', but I gave her my old room phone in third year so we could keep in contact some way faster than letters during our summers apart and I think the technology has grown on her.

She picks up three rings in. "How was it?"

"What?"

"How was the sex?"

"Oh. We didn't have sex yet."

"Huh. What's going on, then?"

I pause.

"Evans."

"Well, I gave him a blow job and he got a little weird afterwards. Like he wanted to talk about our feelings, maybe."

"Hm."

"Hm, what?"

"Nothing."

"Marls, he hasn't talked to me in five days. Did I blow him too soon?"

She laughs long and loud. "Jesus, Lils."

"I'm serious, Marls, I think I scared him off!"

"For Merlin's _sake_ Lily, this kid's been enamored with you since first year! He's probably been fantasizing about you blowing him for _years_ , okay? He's not just going to run off after that."

"Then what should I do?"

She pauses again. I'm picturing her propped up on her canopy bed, twirling the phone cord between her fingers. "Go over to his house wearing nothing but a trench coat."

I roll my eyes. "Seriously."

She sighs. "Seriously, Lils. Maybe just write him a letter saying: 'hey, didn't know if you were still interested in sleeping together or not, let me know, xoxo, Lily'."

"Marleneeee."

"Well what do you want me to say? If this is bothering you, which is _clearly_ is, then do something about it. Talk to him, or something."

She's right, obviously. That doesn't' make me happy about it.

"And can I just say 'I told you so'? In advance?"

"Goodbye, Marlene."

Mum calls me downstairs to help her get ready for dinner, and I'm hopelessly preoccupied tossing salad. Mum − ever observant, as Mums go − notices my distraction.

"Something wrong, honey?"

I contemplate telling her the situation − in very vague detail, of course. But I decide against it. "Not really."

"Thinking about Owen?"

I'm a bit shocked to realize that I haven't thought sadly about Owen in a while. Of course, I've thought about him from time to time, but I haven't _missed_ him in any mournful way since probably the beginning of summer.

He'd broken my heart in such a regular way, saying he just didn't think we were good together anymore. Though it had been anticlimactic and a bit inevitable towards the end, it had still hurt. He'd been my first serious boyfriend, and my first broken heart. Three months ago I'd been thinking I'd never be okay again.

But here I was.

And I smile, because the knowledge is surprising, but also satisfying. "No, Mum, I'm not. I'm actually−"

I'm cut off by a knock at the door. Mum and I look at each other in confusion.

I ask, "Petunia's at Vernon's parents, isn't she?"

"She is," Mum nods, putting down the plates she was retrieving from a cabinet. "I'll see who it is."

I return to my salad tossing. From the foyer, I hear Mum saying, "Oh, hello! Can I help you?"

A deep voice responds. "Hi Mrs. Evans, I'm James Potter."

I freeze.

"Oh, James! We've heard so much about you!"

No no no no no no no no. What the fuck.

"Good things, I hope."

Why. Why is this happening. Why.

"Of course, of course! You're looking for Lily, I assume? She's just in the kitchen, Lily! Someone here for you!"

I'm seemingly paralyzed. Absolutely unable to move. Why is he here, now? Why didn't he owl? Why is my heart beating so godamn fast?

Mum calls again. "Lily?"

Slowly, I emerge from temporary paralysis. I consider making a run for it, but ultimately decide that's against my best interests. Instead, I inhale deeply and walk into the foyer.

James is wearing a sky-blue button-down and khakis. This is attire screams "Meeting the Parents". _What in the hell_. He looks cheerful and perfectly blameless, as if this isn't a bit out of the blue for him to just show up unannounced.

But he also looks really godamn handsome.

"James, what a surprise!" I try to use a pleasant tone of voice, for my mother's sake.

"I'm awfully sorry to drop by without warning," he flashes me a dazzling makes it difficult to be angry with him in any way. "But I was just wondering if you'd like to go for a stroll."

 _A stroll? What is this, 1840?_ "Actually, we're just about to have dinner, I'm sorry."

"Oh, the roast is still cooking, honey, we're still fifteen minutes out at least. Go for a stroll."

I glance over at Mum. She is looking at James, star struck.

James is still beaming.

I am furious at them both.

But of course, I can't say so. "Oh. Alright, then."

"Have fun!" Mum yells after us as I step out the door.

James tucks his hands into his pockets as we step onto the sidewalk in front of my house. "She's heard a lot about me, huh?"

I roll my eyes. "Don't get excited. It was mostly about how much I wanted to hex you."

He laughs. The sky is dripping orange and red behind the brick and stone houses that line our street. He sneaks a look at me through his periphery. "You look nice."

I turn to look at him, then down at what I'm wearing, an oversized shirt and shorts meant for running or sleeping. I'm wearing no makeup. My hair likely looks like a curly rats-nest atop my head. "Have you recently gone blind?"

He laughs again. It sparkles in the flare of falling sun. "You always look nice, Lily."

Everything he says complicates things. I want to tell him five days was too long to not talk, to not see each other. But what would that imply? That we're more than friends?

"Look, I wanted to apologize for the other day." He says. "I didn't mean to make things uncomfortable."

Oh _godamn it_. Now _he's_ apologizing. When he definitely shouldn't have to.

"You don't have to apologize," I'm looking at his profile. The red and orange of the sky sets his silhouette on fire. "You have a right to ask a question like that."

He is silent for a while. "I didn't want to push things. I'm so glad we're friends, Lily. I don't want to push you into anything you aren't interested in."

"But I'm−" I stop myself before I say anything too incriminating. I'm not ready. "I'm not _not_ interested."

This makes him turn his head. "Oh?"

I shouldn't have said that, probably. "Jesus, James, I wouldn't be volunteering my _body_ for your _education_ if I didn't like you to some degree, okay?"

I sense his smile.

We've come to a small park between developments, empty at this time of day. I walk over to a bench at its edge and sit, James following suit.

"I just don't want you to think I'm exploiting you. For your body, I mean."

"I don't think that," I answer, watching the sun slip behind the play castle and swings. "I am entirely consensual to the arrangement, if you recall."

Our silence is comfortable now that the air has been cleared. I feel lighter. Our hands are resting side by side on the bench, and I think about how easy it would be to reach out and touch his fingers. But that's not what we are.

I almost wish it was what we were.

"Is it your turn, next?"

I turn and look at him, golden as always. I wonder at his words, then connect the meaning to the still-fresh memory of _his_ turn. "Are you up for that?"

He surprises me by reaching forward and framing my face lightly with his fingers. "I think the better question is − are you ready to have your world rocked?"  
The laughter that bursts out of my mouth is warm and matches his. The weight of this grip is something I've wanted all week. I lean into him, our noses nearly colliding, savoring the almost-kiss. I want to make myself wait just a little bit longer.

James disagrees. He crashes our lips together like waves, insistently, storm-like. The taste of him fills my head

One thing I should remember to teach him is patience.

* * *

Owen had refused on _principle_ to take his lips anywhere near my cunt.

James − well. He feels differently.

It started in the ever more familiar routine: kissing, spine-tingles, clothes coming off (in no particular order: my shirt, his shirt, my bra, my shorts), everything heating and getting hotter, my head screaming _Lily quit enjoying this so much quit enjoying this so much Lily_ , kissing, more kissing, every inch of my spine tingling.

And we end up laying vertically on the bed, his hand skimming down my breasts, down my navel, down onto my−

" _Oh_."

(We're at his house again − his parents are in London for a weekend away. I'm at the cinema with Dorcas − at least, that's what I told my parents and Petunia.)

James' bed is positioned directly beneath a large window, allowing the black of night to bleed into his room. If I open my eyes, I can see the stars. Sometimes a sliver of moon.

The moment his hand slides over my panties I'm sunk.

It's easy to forget during these trysts that _I'm_ supposed to be teaching _him_. He has gotten magnificent with his tongue, his lips, his hands. It's almost as if he's anticipating my desires before I know they exist.

It's _rattling_.

James is easing me onto my back, sliding onto his side until he matches my length head to toe. My hair is a catastrophe of strands, invading the space where our kisses exist, so he smoothes it away until it fans the pillow behind me. His eyes attach to mine, dark in the near-darkness, and for a second I'm afraid − gravely afraid.

Because I know that the rhythm beneath my ribs is entirely the fault of this look. This boy.

And then he kisses me again and I tell myself to _shut up and pay attention_.

The uncertain panty-rubbing begins to feel like a tease, and I'm craving friction. I run my hand down James' arm (studiously ignoring the forearm strength) until my fingers cover his. He flees from my mouth, his eyes more night than eye. I move our fingers slowly, skimming the band of my underwear, sliding underneath like a whisper.

I see the night in his eyes dilate, feel his breath quicken at my cheek. I'm silken dewy. His fingers still and his face is a conundrum of doubt. "What−" He has to clear his throat, his voice is nothing but smoke. "What do I do?"

I use my unoccupied hand to brush his hair away from his forehead. "Just move," I say, and demonstrate by sliding our joined fingers back and forth. The friction burns in the best way. The muscles in my thighs clench at the contact. "Like that."

I help him for a moment more, than remove my hand, bringing it to splay his shoulder. His fingers brush against me less tentatively, up and down, back and forth. My hips push into his palm of their own account.

James, evidently feeling more comfortable now that he's eliciting a physical reaction, brings his lips to my neck. Sensations at every axis collide. I feel a familiar pressure building slowly in the hypersensitive nerves between my legs.

I can barely control my breath. I didn't think this would feel so terrifyingly good.

I'm so focused on the terrifying goodness of it that I don't notice James' lips trailing away from my neck, finding a path down, down, down, over my belly. The slowness of it is excruciatingly pleasurable. _What the fuck._ I can only watch in awe as he removes his hand from my sensitive apex and slides my panties off my legs.

Well, shit. I wasn't planning on this.

With the softest touch I've ever felt, James moves my leg aside so his head hovers right above my cunt. Having never experienced breath so close to this part of my body, I'm swallowing hard, over and over, trying to come to grips with my sudden inexperience. James' hands round my thighs.

I am so explosive. I want his lips on me.

But he's still wearing glasses.

I lean forward to take them off. He blinks up at me as I toss them onto the bedside table.

I wonder, "Can you see anything?"

He is smiling like the night handed him a star as a souvenir. "I can see everything I need to see."

Okay, _fuck this kid_.

James is now kissing the sides of my thighs, taking ages with each, and I am trying to control my heavy breaths, my hands gripping helplessly at his. My head is muddled. All I seem to know is whatever comes next will have me headed straight for the stars.

"James, " I don't like that my voice isn't mine when his name practically begs its way through my lips. I don't know what I'm asking for exactly. I know exactly what I'm asking for.

 _How did we get here?_

I see his face only between shadows. He places a kiss at my dewy center.

Every inch of nerve cracks open.

(I'm angry at Owen in this moment. _How dare he have kept this from me._ )

I'm flooded with sensation that derives from his lips and spreads out to every edge with heat and tingle. I feel flames replace blood, bones liquefying against the laws of physics. James kisses with tenderness and sleek attention to the slowness of it, every broken contact a moment where my chest contracts in desperation, every dip of his mouth a subsequent relief, a firework. I didn't teach him any of this. This tortuous, gentle speed is his own prerogative.

 _I didn't teach him any of this._

The knowledge reminds me of my responsibilities. Teaching responsibilities. I rouse myself from supreme sensual leisure and tip up on my elbows. "Fingers," I breathe, because breath is all I have to give. "Inside."

James lifts his eyes momentarily, but obliges, bringing a tentative finger back to the explosive center. He hovers, hesitant again.

I guide his touch onto the palette of heat and damp. This is biting (my hips convulse automatically, his eyes flood with night), but not nearly close enough. I push it further until it slides deep.

" _Holy hell_ ," Steals my breath this time.

"And?" James looks to me for assistance.

"Another," I gasp.

"Another?"

I nod, my words dissolved in the suspension of my delicate life in his hands.

can't help but imagine how the movement would feel with the participation of other parts of his anatomy.

 _Lily, not now. Focus._

The slow slide and slip of two fingers promises a quick path to undoing, but James is never satisfied with _good enough_ , apparently, because he adds his lips back into the equation and I figure right then and there that whatever peaks I think I've achieved in my sexual history have got to have been practical jokes.

I'm on a high speed train now, the world flying past. James' fingers and mouth don't move in practiced harmony but something about the disjunction makes every heat hotter. There are breathy moans flying out of me that will assuredly embarrass me in an hour, but my mind is gone. The world has hollowed into nothing but his head between my legs.

My thighs are rattling without my permission, my pelvis rising in disorderly interval to bring my cunt closer to his lips, closer to the friction of his fingers. The stars are so close.

"Jesus _Merlin_ , James," I'm ragged with a desire to voice everything I feel and a complete and frustrating inability to think of words.

James isn't slowed by my forgetting of proper language. He drives me further and further and further, and it's almost too good to be true that he's never done this before because I forget my name and the year and the reason we're on this bed together in the first place for half a second in time and space and I'm − I'm struck by a splintering lightening bolt, everything shattering, everything electricity, stars spreading across every nerve.

The stars are a beautiful place to be.

He has to know what he's just done to me, but James reveals no such knowledge. His lips are still slow, fingers steady. He is buried in my thighs.

 _What galaxy is this? I want to stay here forever._

Finally, _finally_ , he takes away his hand, his mouth. He looks to me. I'm not sure what he finds − a confusion where there used to be confidence? I am looking at his mouth like I've never truly seen it before.

"You−" I have to handle him tenderly as he approaches from the end of the bed, force myself not to bruise his lips between my own, transferring every inch of electricity that he just jolted into my body. I rope my hands around his neck. My body seems to want his near, first and foremost. The darkness between us condenses. My calves skim the fabric of his shorts and I feel how affected he was by the ordeal. "You sure you haven't done that before?"

He takes a while of staring at me before he responds. "Would I lie to you, Lily?"

I'm wholly convinced − and I'm not sure if it's the orgasm he's just given me, or how his arms feel around my back, or the hour of night, or the starlight I feel floating in front of my eyes − that he wouldn't lie to me. Ever.

I kiss him my answer.

 _What have I gotten myself into?_


	4. Chapter 4

Friday night is Family Night at the Evans house, and the second Friday in July is the worst family night in the history of family nights.

It features Petunia absolutely ignoring me and her awful sod of a boyfriend, Vernon, studiously doing the same (no doubt on Petunia's stern cue), and mum and dad feeling incredibly uncomfortable that I'm being ignored and attempting − with no luck − to include me in the activities.

Petunia's attitude towards me has worsened this summer. She's probably months away from an 'advantageous' engagement to Vernon, and is likely embarrassed that I will probably have to be involved in the process somehow. I wish, more than anything, that Petunia and I were better sisters, like we were than we were younger. Well, that _she_ was a better sister. I could use a mentor, someone older, to help me through my current situation. But her aversion to my magical condition seems like it will never abate.

When we were younger, we were such good sisters. I looked up to her. But the day I got my Hogwarts letter, she turned poisonous. I mourn those days.

This family night is the _worst_.

But − it really doesn't matter, because my head is elsewhere.

It's: his hands on me, his eyes on me, his lips on me.

It's: me wanting this gone.

It's: me wondering why I can't get him out.  
It's: me knowing that there's only one way to get him out.

Fuck James Potter.

The second Vernon says goodnight to the family (waving very vaguely in my direction rather than addressing me directly), I excuse myself and shuttle upstairs, taking the least amount of time possible to change into something casual and put on a dash of lip color.

I'm just about to run out the door when I catch my appearance in the mirror. I surprise myself by stopping to touch the asymmetrical coil I've pulled my curls into, the red of exertion staining my cheeks. Without permission, I think _I hope he'll think I look good._

Fucking hell, Lily. What's gotten into you?

I slap some mental sense into myself and speed out my room and back down the stairs. Mum and dad are clearing dishes from the evening's dinner as I grab my satchel from the coat rack near the front door. Dad is yelling after me, "Where you off to, Lily-pad?"

I scour my head for an answer that isn't involving the boy down the road. "Um, Mary's invited me over for a sleepover, is that alright?"

"Have fun!" Mum emerges from the kitchen with a towel in her hands. "Just don't forget Dorothy Ann's bridal shower tomorrow, love."

"Of course mum," I say, half-way out the door. "Good night!"

I emerge into suffocating July night heat, heaving in a breath and wondering at my own self-confidence. Not only am I about to barge in on James because I _can't get his hands out of my head_ , but I'm _staying the night_ , apparently.

It's cute, Lily. How dumb you are sometimes.

But for reasons I don't seem to understand yet, I don't stop myself. My feet carry me all the way down the street until I'm in front of the Potter home. The impressively long walk to the front door gives me a million opportunities to turn back, and a million instances that I keep going. In fact, the only hesitation I experience occurs after I've already knocked on the door and am forced just to stand there, panicked in all of a second.

 _What am I doing here?_

A thing I didn't consider, of course, is what happens next.  
Obviously, Mrs. Potter opens the door.

(In my head, during this moment: Lily you stupid fucking arsehole. Of course his parents are home. Of course Mrs. Potter would open the door. Why don't you ever think things through why do you just jump right in, never thinking of the fucking consequences? You sodding idiot, Lily Evans.)

Mrs. Potter is exactly what I expected her to be: the absolute picture of class, sporting heels that could murder a man, elegant black gown, a glass of wine in hand.

I immediately feel _really bloody_ underdressed. And _really bloody_ embarrassed.

And _absolutely furious_ with myself.

Mrs. Potter's smile is less could-murder-a-man. "Oh, hello, there! You must be Lily!"

I am a taken aback. Having never previously met the woman, her knowing my identity is jolting. And besides that, in this moment, I find myself wildly ill-equipped to interact with James' mum. "Um, hi, Mrs. Potter, I'm so sorry to intrude on your night, I was just−"

"Lily?"

Oh fucking hell.

There's no chance in hell the Potter's weren't about to leave for the opera the exact moment I arrived. James is wearing an actual tuxedo.

And he looks _so_ _fucking good._

"Um, hi, James."

His smile says 'what in the hell are you doing here but also I'm charming as always and I'm just going to offer you this dashing smile so your heart will beat right out of your chest'.

Standing next to his mum, it's clear that a good portion of his handsome features have come from her − they share the same cheekbones, and both have thick dark hair.

And here I stand, looking like a hobo asking for a handout.

For Merlin's sake.

"Lily, dear, don't stand out there in the heat, come on in!" Mrs. Potter says, stepping aside and gesturing into the house.

I am floundering. "Oh, it's okay, you are obviously going somewhere, I'm so sorry to have intruded−"

Mrs. Potter is shaking her head before I can finish. "Oh, no, no, dear, we've just gotten back!" She waves her hand like this is a typical Friday night at the Potter home, the waltzing around in formal attire. "Fundraiser for a new product of the Mr.'s, it's all a bit too swanky for my taste, I don't normally go running around in chiffon and stilettos, I can assure you!"

I feel James' eyes on me in my periphery. This makes my cheeks heat incessantly.

From the back of the house, I hear a voice that could only belong to Mr. Potter yelling, "Who's there, Euphemia?"

"It's a friend of James', dear! Lily Evans!"

"Oh my!"

Oh good. I'm just going to meet both of the parents. Excellent choice, Lily, coming here, tonight. Excellent choice.

I hear rushed footsteps approaching the hallway before Mr. Potter emerges, and immediately the other half of James' genetics makes perfect sense. The nose, the poor vision, the height, the dimpled smile − all from his father.

"Ah," when Mr. Potter's eyes fall on me, alighting. I find his colored the same iridescent hazel as James'. "Lily Evans. At last we meet!"

In my periphery, I notice James made distraught by this greeting.

Mr. Potter approaches to shake my hand firmly but warmly, and I can't help but find a smile to match his own. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Potter."

I'm intensely angry that his parents are the nicest people I've ever met.

How dare they.

There is an uncomfortable moment of silence where I suddenly remember the reason I'm here and Mr. and Mrs. Potter seem to be wondering at that exact reason, and I'm guessing James likely hasn't mentioned our new friendship (or the additions to the friendship) to them, because they are looking at as if they expect to introduce me as his betrothed, or something.

FinallyMrs. Potter saves us. "Well, we'll let you two kids go off, the Mr. and I have got a bottle of Chateau Mouton to finish off, come now, darling!" She links her arm through her husband's and sweeps him off in the direction from which he came, killer heels clicking all the way down the hall, leaving James and I alone in the foyer.

I turn to him slowly, and sheepishly. "Um, hi."

His mouth curls into his father's smile. "Hi."

I seemingly can't think of anything else besides the way he looks in a tuxedo. "Er− I'm sorry."

"What for?"

"For coming here, all unexpectedly."

"Well," he tucks his hands into his pockets. "It's not like I've never done that to you, before. We can call it even."

"Okay," I look down at my feet, feeling substantially unprepared.

"I'm glad you're here."

I look up to find him a mere step away. I'm close enough to notice the top button of his dress shirt undone where he must have pulled the bowtie loose. I think about every expanse of bare skin beneath the suit. I suddenly remember every sensation.

My breath has quickened without warning. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," He reaches to cradle my jaw against his palm. I glance furtively in the direction in which his parents have retreated. He follows my eyes, then takes my hand. "Would you like to go upstairs?"

I nod. Upstairs, I ask, "Do you guys go to a lot of black-tie fundraisers?"

James laughs as he approaches his closet, opening it and removing his coat jacket to hang it up. "Not too many, no, but dad's been working on this potion that's been driving everyone wild."

"What kind of potion?" I slip my own shoes off, letting my satchel fall onto the ground next to the door, which I close behind me. I notice James struggling magnificently with his bowtie, so I approach him and say, "Here, let me."

He obliges me, letting his hands fall to his sides as I take a hold of the bowtie. "I'm not entirely sure, actually. Something to do with facial hair growth, maybe?"

The bowtie slides loose beneath my fingers and I arch onto my toes to reach behind James and place it on the dresser. When I lower my toes our faces are −

So close.

I forget immediately what we were talking about.

Something about an arm hair growth charm?

If James remembers, he doesn't let on.

"Is it okay if I tell you that I was thinking about you the entire time?" His voice is something like a wisp of smoke that curls and twists. He brushes his lips against mine so softly I hardly notice.

This _fucks me up_.

"Yes," I breathe, and kiss him, harder.

This creates quite a commotion. James seems to want to take it slow, his fingers softly bordering my neck and my hip. But I want to do the exact opposite. I bruise our lips together in an attempt to open his mouth, but he resists, _it's so slow_ , like he's got ages to do this, but we _don't_. We don't have ages. I grunt from somewhere in my throat, and this opens his mouth into a smile, and then he's laughing, "Someone's impatient."

I huff a breath, my face falling to the side of his. "You think it was easy for me to think about you during _family night_?" I shove my hands against his chest, smoothing them onto his shoulders, gripping the fabric of his shirt. "I didn't fancy thinking of you and your− your _lips_ while playing scrabble with Petunia and Vernon."

James' laugh has dispersed. "You were−" He clears his throat to find his voice. "Thinking about my lips?"

I raise my eyes to his, and nod. My hands stroke up towards the exposed skin of his neck, the triangle of skin where his collar parts. I approach with my lips and trail a path from the triangle to the next fastened button, which I unsnap, then reach another, unsnap. I continue this pattern of undoing until I've fallen to my knees in front of him. I slide my hands from his open shirt to his dress pants, the sleek black that was no doubt fitted _explicitly_ to make women swoon.

James is reaching behind him to grip his hand onto whatever surface will steady him as I unclasp his pants and make for a hasty removal. My hand roams the swell beneath his underwear, feeling the entire length, before I do away with the article entirely.

He inhales, sharply. "Sweet Merlin."

The first time I did this, I suppose it was for education's sake. But I can't deny that this second time is purely for the way his fingers grip the door behind him, the straining in his jaw, the way he says, " _Jesus_ , I haven't stopped thinking about this."

I'm taking a hint from his tortuous exploration of me mere days ago, tasting slowly. Methodically. But it seems the slowness of my tongue, my lips, is too agonizing, because seconds later James is tugging at my shoulders, urging me upwards. When I stand, my hand attaches to where my lips have vacated. James spins me around and props me against the closet door, his mouth accosting mine. My hand slides up and down the erection I've created, his groaning filling my mouth.

" _Shit_ , Lils, will you−" he seems unable to get words out between our lips. "Can we− will you, _fuck_ , will you cut that out? I don't want to explode here."

With a final stroke, I remove my hand and detach from him with a smile. He's pushed his hips against mine, pinning me against the door.

It's fucking hot.

I trail my thumb across his lower lip. I want exactly what I think he wants. "You've got another means of explosion in mind?"  
James' eyes are dark − night-dark. He snakes his arms around my back, sliding under my shirt, bringing our bodies even closer. "Can we?"

I feel the question in every inch of skin. I think about him inside me.

I swallow, hard. "Please."

This undoes him.

James shifts his arms to lift me from the bum, my thighs wrapping around his waist. He tumbles backwards, barely making it to the bed before I've crashed on top of him, and his hardness against all of my clothes is absolute torture, and he must think so too because he's frantically jostling my shirt up over my head, yanking the flimsy fabric of my bra down over my breasts and pulling them to his mouth. I've no choice but to lean over him as his lips surround my peaks, and it's sloppy but it's sexy as fuck to watch him suck, moving from one to the other, the less-than-careful kisses exactly what I want, exactly what I need.

I'm frantically reaching behind me to twist the clasp of my bra, and when it falls away I shove it off, leaning further into his mouth, my head falling into the sheets of his bed, my body coming alive, and I choke into his ear, "I sure hope you've got good soundproofing charms up here."

James laughs, buried in my tits. His cock is brushing insistently against my shorts and it's driving me mental. I crave his fingers between my legs. "Will you touch me?" I'm begging more than asking.

In response James snaps open my shorts, sliding a hand under my panties, and he finds out what hot, open-mouthed kisses can do to a girl. My breath exits my lungs in the form of an embarrassingly whiny moan, and he smiles into my neck, kissing up and down my jaw. I unconsciously grind against his fingers, yearning for friction. I am transported.

I want him inside.

I sit up suddenly, falling backwards, pulling him onto to me, finding his mouth with mine, attempting to simultaneously kiss him and remove my remaining clothes. He assists, tugging my shorts and panties down my thighs and tossing them onto his bedroom floor. And then−

We're both naked. On his bed.

I have allegedly abandoned my teaching position.

 _Fuck._

James' eyes are suddenly panicked. "Wait, shit, is there a charm? Do I need to do a charm?"

"I'm on a contraceptive charm, relax," I laugh. "Effective for two years."

This calms him down for only a moment. I watch his face morph into a familiar portrait, concern at every edge. My hands reach to his back, gripping. He's hovering above me.

I say, "Just go slow. To get the hang of it."

The concern stitches his eyebrows near his nose. "You gotta tell me, right now, that you're okay with this, Lily, I don't want to−"

"James," I kiss him, slowly, luxuriously. He is dazed when we come up for air. "I want this, okay?"

I think about how we close are to the point of no return. I swallow. "I want you."

This seems to do the trick.

James falls to his knees, and my legs slide upwards to allow him entrance. I watch with less anxiety than anticipation as he positions himself at the crest of my thighs, and he pauses and looks up at me, doubt still coloring his eyes, so I bring a hand of assistance, leading his cock to the place I want it most, and he pushes with his hips and there it is − the bliss.

It's been a few months. And Owen's half-hearted attempts at pleasuring me during sex were, well, half-hearted. I forgot the feeling.

But how could I forget a feeling I've never actually − woah. _Felt_.

James remains completely still. I can tell by the look on his face that he is attempting to sort out every sensation. I can also tell that he's got room to go. I tug him towards me, hand in his hair, tilting my hips upwards. "You can go further," I whisper, and his eyes widen.

"It won't...hurt?"

"Not in the way you might think."

He pushes his hips further. "Oh," He says, leaning into me. His hair brushes against my forehead.

Though his hesitation is often endearing, right now, with him _inside of me_ , I want _fast action_. Every second of stillness increases my need for motion. "James," I prod, as gently as I am able. "Will you move?"

In lieu of a response, he withdraws. Then, he finds my eyes and pushes back inside. The choke that captures my throat is an indication that _I liked that_. He sees my eyes, and sees this, and so he does it again, and then again, and again and again. I can't help but arch upwards to capture his lips, allowing my hips to participate in the movement I so crave. The kissing becomes less and less neat. James has found a tempo that can only be described as _correct_.

I sure as _hell_ didn't teach him this.

Godamn it, Potter.

I forgot just how uncontrollably warm two naked bodies can become. With Owen, I was always a bit self-conscious about sweating during sex, about how out of breath it made me, my weird pleasure sounds. And I always wanted something—more. Something he never seemed to be able to give me.

This isn't the case with James.

I'm sweating but I don't care at all, I feel his own perspiration beneath my hands roaming his back, his muscles convulsing under my fingers, and I taste it at forehead, see it coloring his hair black. Every breath I lose he gives back to me, our lips acting like anchors to one another, and every sound I make that I can't seem to control is echoed by him, and this drives me forward, intensifying the feeling that we've become less like two and more like one.

James is comfortable with the rhythm of his hips now, and he's somehow managing to also pay attention to my body beneath his, hands on my breasts, lips fastening to my neck, fingers clutching at my thigh. The pressure between my legs is beginning to electrify in a way that lets me know I'm approaching a peak. Everything is dizzying. And though I love the feeling of his strength above me, overpowering me, a yearning to be in charge suddenly overcomes me.

So I grab James' head and exhale, " _Over_."

Whether or not he understands this cryptic instruction, he doesn't resist when I push on his torso and roll him over onto his back. Now beneath me, James is grinning like an idiot, like he forgot there was more than one way to do this. His hands rise to grip my hips.

In this process of switching places, our bodies lose a most important physical connection, so I reach between us for his cock. I find it slick. His eyes widen. With painstaking lethargy, I slide backwards until I feel him as deeply as I need to.

James groans, his eyes falling shut. His head hits a pillow behind him.

I smirk, then begin to move.

His chest serves as an anchor for my hands as I tilt my hips as deliberately as possible, savoring every angle. It's indescribable from this position, using upwards leverage to my every advantage. James finally opens his eyes, tilting at the neck to watch me. I can tell he's close, because his instincts dominate his movements. His fingers splaying my bum, gripping, allowing for higher lift and deeper tilt, and I feel my breath matching his, every push and pull contributing to absolute escalation.

"Lily," he chokes, suddenly. "I'm not going to last much longer, Jesus."

I almost laugh, but catch myself. I fold over him, tits against chest, undulations quickening with my own closeness. I reintroduce our lips. It's quick. It's so quick now. He's hitting me right where I− _oh fuck_. " _Shit_ ," I am breathing harshly, trying to keep his gaze but failing miserably, falling into his neck and cheeks, his chest, his lips. I'm manic. " _Shit_."

I remember how it was with Owen.

It was nothing like this.

James' wild moaning drives my body onwards and onwards and onwards, and higher, and further, and longer, and harder, until I reach a point where I discover complete voicelessness, oxygen fleeing my lungs, and our bodies are immobile for half of a millisecond before the lightning strikes, splintering, a crackling detonation that spirals from toe to forehead, radiating outwards, like waves crash.

"For fuck's sake," is my main comment before unburying myself from James' chest and finding his mouth. I kiss him with every inch of electricity flooding my nerves. I want to devour him. I want to experience that explosion every minute. I kiss him until I've exhausted myself with the exertion, and have to slide off onto my side.

James is staring at me this entire time, arms tight around my back. My thigh props on top of his as he eases himself out of me. Every surface of my skin is tingling with the aftermath. Aftershocks of pleasure ripple through my bloodstream. My disbelief doesn't allow me words.

James is ultimately concerned by my speechlessness. "Are you− are you okay?"

The concern in his voice and in his eyes make it clear that he has _no idea_ what's just happened. I look at him hard and long, observing how his hair is completely askew, his cheeks a deep pink, his lips plump and imprinted with my own. He looks thoroughly fucked.

 _How could he not know how he just made me feel?_

I laugh, which is a bad move, because it makes him lower his eyes, his fingers slackening at my back. I immediately move into him, racing my hands into his hair. "Oh my God, James," I stroke his jaw until he looks back up. "You − you made me... _fuck_..."

His eyebrows concave. He is _thick_.

"You colossal _dolt_ ," I struggle to find words to describe what he needs to hear. "Owen _never_ made me−he _never_ made me feel like that, okay?"

This is the first time I've reminded him of Owen. It makes his jaw twitch. "Truly?"

I bite my lip to contain the aftereffects of an indescribable orgasm at the hands of _James Potter_. "Would I lie to you?"

He softens. There's also a bit of new light in his eyes. A smile overtakes him, and I am propelled forward to kiss him, soundly, and deeply.

In this moment, I am so angry at myself, because in reality it's _me_ that is thick, because I won't just admit it− admit that I'm falling.

 _Fuck._

I'm falling in love with him.

 _Fuck._


	5. Chapter 5

Marlene rings me the following night and doesn't allow me to argue when she says, "We're going to a party in the city at Oliver Wright's." She hangs up after saying, "I'll be around at 9. Don't dress like a nun, Lils."

Being friends with a socialite like Marlene comes with the inevitable consequence of being dragged to things like this. If there's something Marlene loves, it's a good party. She _lives_ for parties. Especially parties thrown by someone like Oliver Wright.

In the tier of popular soon-to-be seventh years, I'd say Oliver Wright ranks right near the top, probably only bested (to my constant dismay) by the Marauders. My only inkling on how Marlene managed to snag an invite to this party is her on-again-off-again fling with Oliver's best mate, Bennett Windsom, an impossibly tall bloke with outrageous dimples and an even more outrageous trust fund from his Pureblood parents.

The phone call leaves me spiraling, trying to figure out what sort of outfit will fit Marlene's non-modest standards. I settle on an off-the-shoulder black top and jeans, but as I examine the look in my mirror, I hear Marlene's voice in the back of my head saying, _C'mon, Evans, is that the best you can do?_ So I whisk on a little eyeliner, darken my lips, sweep my hair into a less-than-neat up-do, and throw on some tiny gold hoops. I reassess, and decide even Marlene will have to be happy with this effort.

I hear my mum's voice calling from downstairs as I'm grabbing a purse. "Lily, Marlene and Dorcas here for you!"

Marlene's eyes appraise me as I make my way down the stairs and into the foyer, where they're waiting. "Not bad, Evans," she nods approvingly. "I thought I might have to deny at least the first three outfits."

I roll my eyes, turning to smile at Dorcas, whom I've barely seen all summer. She regards me warmly, holding out her arms to me. She looks effortlessly beautiful as always, dark hair loose and wavy down her back, clad in a typically Dorcas combination of denim and fringe that leaves little to the imagination. I hug her hard, saying, "You got roped into this too?"

She looks meaningfully at Marlene, who looks more supermodel than seventeen-year-old in platform heels and a skimpy shift dress. "She said she wouldn't come see me in Quidditch if I didn't come tonight."

"I said something _much_ less threatening than that, okay?" Marlene protests, whipping out a tube of lipstick to retouch her plum-colored lips. "Besides. We're allowed to have a little fun, right? It's summer, is it not?"

"Good _Lord_ ," I laugh. "Let's just go before I change my mind, okay?"

When we're out on the streets, we attach ourselves to Marlene's arms, her being the only one that knows the generally location of the Wright-family home in inner London. We land on a block lined with impressive brownstones, brick and stone and marble, and Marlene leads us to one not far from a corner boasting Roddingham Avenue. It's stone and tall, the pathway leading to the front door lined with beautiful magnolia bushes. I think I can hear a faint pulse of music coming from behind the door.

Marlene knocks on the door, and a girl opens it, smiling widely and shrieking, "Marls!" This drunken outburst leads to a prolonged embrace from the girl, whom I soon recognize as Ezabelle Churns, sixth-year Hufflepuff. _Drunk_ sixth yearHufflepuff. Ezabelle finally pulls away from Marlene to find Dorcas and I waiting patiently on the steps, and her indigo eyes alight, the inordinate amount of silver bangles lining her arm jingling raucously as she yells down, "Lily! Dorcas! Come on in! Drinks in the kitchen!"

The Wright brownstone is gorgeous inside, and I take a moment to sympathize with Mr. and Mrs. Wright, who are no doubt away for the night, and are no doubt oblivious to the crowds of Hogwarts upper-classman swarming their expensive city-home at the moment. Marlene and Dorcas shuffle through the crowd towards the kitchen, led by Ezabelle, who's wildly lavender hair is hard to miss. I spot a healthy mix of all houses present at this party, the exception being Slytherins, of which I only see one or two. The majority of party-goers are Gryffindor, unsurprisingly.

Near the lip of the tiny kitchen Marlene spots Oliver and Bennett, both clad in pastel button-downs, and greets them enthusiastically. Dorcas and I wait patiently to say hello, and when Marlene's flown off to the kitchen, yelling, "I'll get drinks!", the boys turn. Oliver nods at us each, his mouth curling into a lopsided grin. "Lily, Dorcas, thanks for coming."

"Thanks for having us," I return, feel a bit of sweat accumulate at the back of my neck because Oliver is staring straight at me, and staring longer than people normally stare. "Beautiful place!"

"Can't take credit for it," he laughs, his eyes still on me. Thankfully, Marlene swoops back in, hands cluttered with butterbeers. She shoves one at me and I immediately take a swig, eager to escape Oliver's intense stare.

I turn to Dorcas as Marlene attaches herself to Bennet. "Want to take a lap? Maybe Hana and Tess are here."

Dorcas nods her consent and we slip away, slinking into the living room to look for our Ravenclaw friends. The room is full of gold-embroidered couches and leather armchairs and large-leafed plants and tipsy teenagers. Dorcas runs into her some teammates, and I'm about to enter the conversation when I hear from behind me say, "Evans?"

It takes me a moment to collect to recognize the voice.

Then my stomach drops.

 _Fuck_.

 _Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck._

I really _really_ don't want to, but I turn around – slowly – to find exactly the person I suspected: Sirius Black, ragged and black haired and leather-jacket-clad, as usual.

He looks surprised to see me. I'm surprised to see him, too. Although, I probably shouldn't be. I mean, I'm a _fucking idiot_. How could I not have considered the insanely likely possibility that the Marauders would _be at this party_?

 _The entirety of the Marauders, no doubt._

"You drink, Evans?"

I am so dazed with my own stupidity that I take a long, confused moment to respond. "Um, yeah."

Sirius has no chance to respond because someone is coming up behind him, someone with fistfuls of fluffy hair, someone glasses-clad, someone saying, "oi, here's your drink mate, did you−"

James sees me and freezes to the spot.

He looks summery handsome, like always. _Fuck_ does he look good.

He stares in a stupid way and seems entirely unsure how to address me. "Uh, Lily, hi."  
This is a situation I didn't think we would have to navigate.

I nod at him, carefully. "James."

Sirius is now whipping his head between the two of us, somehow more perplexed than before. "Wait − what's this? What's happened to _Potter_ and _Evans_?"

James is still staring at me, the butterbeers forgotten in his hands. He opens his mouth to respond but I don't let him, interjecting, "You know what? I just forgot I had to take ten shots of firewhiskey. If you'll excuse me, boys."

With this, I politely push past them and back through the entryway, past where Marlene stands, still talking with Bennet. She spots me and gives a look of confusion.

I mouth ' _help_ '.

Her eyebrows crinkle, but she says something quickly to Bennet, squeezing his arm, then follows me as I push past the crowds near the front door and finally find room to breathe in a small hallway to the left of the staircase upstairs.

As soon as we're out of earshot of other guests, Marlene asks, "what's wrong?"

"James is here."

"Oh _shit_." Marlene smiles maniacally, not exactly the reaction I was looking for.

"This isn't a good thing, Marlene!" I respond, hysterical. "I don't know how to − how to _behave_ around him in this kind of situation!"  
"Maybe," Marlene considers. "You should just snog him out there, and make the relationship public."  
I roll my eyes impatiently. "We're not _in_ a relationship, Marls, c'mon."

She raises her eyebrows.

I'm indignant. "We're _not_ , okay? I don't...I just don't know how to act around him." I pause for a moment. "Can we leave? Can we just leave?"

Marlene shakes her head vehemently. "Absolutely _not_. I am not leaving after _five_ minutes just because you don't know how to act around your fuck buddy, alright?"

"Fuck−" I shake my head. "He's not a _fuck buddy_ , Jesus, Marls."

Marlene throws her hands up in exasperation. "Okay, well, I don't really care what he is, but the fact that _you_ can't even put a label on it maybe points to a deeper issue here, huh?"

I don't want to admit that she's right, so I don't respond.

Marlene softens her approach. "Lils, it's gonna be fine, okay?" She rubs my arm comfortingly, then her eyes alight. "Let's just get drunk, yeah? You'll forget all about it!"

This makes me feel only marginally better, but I give in. "Fine." I pause before adding, "in that case, I need a shot. Or ten."

Marlene's smile is electric as she loops an arm through mine and leads me out of the corridor. "That's the spirit!"

Six shots later, everything blurs at the edges. The party grows in size, and as the alcohol runs out, the music gets louder, and the living room turns into an impromptu dance floor. I find myself swaying to the beat between Dorcas and Marlene, and Tess and Hana, who we'd finally found, and the lights seem lower than before, the beat of some American record I don't recognize transforming this group of students into a troupe of makeshift disco-goers. I feel the drinks warming my stomach, my chest, the heat of bodies too close together reddening my cheeks and neck. A cosmic vibrancy soaks the room. It's the most magic we can make it without casting spells.

And then − there he is.

Maybe he was near me the entire time. I probably wouldn't have noticed through my tipsy haze. I catch a glance of Sirius, Remus, Peter, and I strain to see throughbetween swinging bodies and low lights. Andthere he is, not far where I stand.

His eyes meet mine, and he breaks into a wide grin, and I can't help but return it. He's buzzed, I can tell. Against my best interests, my heart cascades. I can't help it. He affects me, whether I like it or not. Whether I want him to or not.

Very suddenly, every reason I had for not wanting to be seen with him in this setting has dissolved in alcohol, and music, and heat, and I want nothing more than to be near him.

He must have the same thought.

Before I know it we've met in the middle, and we're forced to be close, because the crowd of dancers is thick and ruthless, and I can't take my eyes from his. I want to be close. I want to feel him close, then closer. I try to convince myself that it's the alcohol. But I know it's less than 1% because of the alcohol.

I don't stop to consider where the other 99% is coming from.

"Fancy seeing you here," he says, his voice somehow louder than all the other noise.

I want to hold his hand. I want to hold _him_.

"I don't usually come to things like this." I'm very quickly breathless in his presence. Annoying as _fuck_ , really. "Marlene dragged me."

"I'll have to thank Marlene, then." He seems closer, somehow. His voice, lower. Husky.

There are moments that I've wanted to kiss him, then there's _this_ moment.

"Is everybody looking at us right now?" I wonder, my voice nothing more than air.

His fingers skirt mine, quickly, softly. The touch infuriates me, because I want _more_. So much more. His eyes don't move from mine. "I don't think anybody is looking at us right now."

I decide that even if they are looking, I don't care. "Do you know your way around this place?"

His smile has slipped away, an expression of poorly-masked yearning replacing it. "There's an empty place next to the bathroom."

I squeeze his fingers for half a second. A promise to follow where he leads. "I'll wait a minute."

I sense the tension of anticipation pulsing in his neck, in his eyes. He stays with me a moment more, then his ghostly touch is gone with him. I turn my head to watch as he heads towards the back of the room and onto a dark hallway in the far corner.

I turn back towards Dorcas, Tess, Marlene and Hana, who haven't seemed to have noticed my temporary absence. I find Dorcas' ear and say, "I don't feel good, I'm going to find a loo."

Dorcas turns to me with worry. "Oh no, do you want me to come with?"

"No, it's okay, thanks, I'll be back in a jiffy." I assure her, and she nods.

I navigate my way through the swarm of drunken dancers, carefully leaning away to avoid two necking Ravenclaws as I head back the way I saw James leave. It feels as if a fire is spreading across my skin, a combination of the intense heat of the room and the heat of knowing that he's somewhere, waiting for me. The hallway he exited through leads to three or four doors, one of which is slightly ajar, and I figure that's my best bet. I slip through it with a quick glance to make sure no one's watching.

I close and lock the door behind me, finding myself what is probably best described as a linen closet, a tiny room lined with baskets of sheets and towels, and in the corner, there's a boy leaning against the wall.

The lighting is dim at best, the source of it being three meager bulbs hanging rather hazardously from the right-most corner of the ceiling. James stands beneath the halo of these lights, half-engulfed in shadows.

I'm not sure if I'm supposed to explain myself first, but I don't have any real desire to so. Instead, I approach him and slip my hands up his arms, up his shoulders, up his neck, until they line the sides of his face, and I can pull said face towards me, feeling his breath against my mouth only for a second before I capture his lips in mine.

The instant of contact is burning. James groans from the back of his throat, possibly the sexiest thing he could possibly do to me in my current tipsy condition. I push myself against him mercilessly, jumpstarting the pace of our mouths together from slow to frantic. His hands speed to my lower back, pushing beneath fabric to find bare skin. This is absolutely tantalizing, and I push myself against him, harder, till I feel every centimeter of his body in tandem with mine.

I want less clothing, more skin, but I recognize the restrictions that this location puts on any tryst, so I settle for what I've been given, kissing him with the voltage of energy flowing through me. I've never felt our connection quite this desperately before, the knowledge that we're in a bit of a dangerous situation a place we could potentially be discovered making the temperature rise drastically, the heat of his hands and his mouth making everything a haze.

I realize how seriously I need to teach him patience when he staggers forwards until he's pushed me flush against the opposite wall, his hips pinned to mine, a fact that goes directly between my legs and inspires a guttural sigh from the depths of my lungs.

James detaches from my lips, breathless. "Is this a pre-planned lesson on snogging in small spaces?"

I'm having a hard time responding because his warm hands have moved to my front, sliding up beneath my shirt lethargically. I kiss him once, twice, shoving my hands above the band of his jeans to grip his abdomen. "Yes. This was completely planned. In every way."

He laughs against my lips. "You must have –" I tilt my hips into his, and he moans halfway through his sentence. "–excellent foresight, _shit_ , Lils, _shit_."  
I smile at the effect I'm having, claiming his mouth again. His hands have rise and I see the disbelief in his eyes when he finds me without a bra. I bite at his lower lip as his fingers round my naked tits, thumbs sweeping my already attentive peaks. I'm moaning irrationally. We're grinding shamelessly. The friction of clothing on clothing makes the embrace as frustrating as it is frantic.

I realize at this moment how comfortable I am with him. Weeks ago, such behavior would have been intensely embarrassing to me. But in this moment, I find myself completely uncaring, entirely unaware of how I'm acting.

All that matters is _him_.

This realization – accompanied by bravery gifted by alcohol – is what leads me to voice a desire that's stabbing my thoughts. I pull away to find his ear, breathing against it, "I want to suck your cock."

His lips loll against my neck. He inhales, sharply.

I smirk.

But then he surprises me. He retreats from my shoulder and leans in closer, closer, until his lips ghost against mine. "You know," he murmurs, eyes blazing into mine. "I think maybe it's me that should be doing the sucking this time."

With his, he slides his lips from mine and over onto the part of my shoulder exposed by my shirt. I quickly swallow my shock at his turning of the tables and slide into the pleasure of watching it play out – _feeling_ it play out. His fingers skim from my breasts to my hips with a heat that leaves me gasping, his lips releasing my shoulder as his knees buckle and then he's down in front of me, looking up through shadowed glasses.

This is very quickly becoming my favorite view of him between my knees.

I lace my fingers through his hair, anchoring myself. He unbuttons my jeans and loops his fingers through the sides to pull them down over my pelvis. He looks at me with intentional heat, and I'm certain that he's pausing to hear how my breath exits my lungs in frantic bursts, my heart beating a rhythm that is assuredly syncopated by the grip of his fingers against my thighs.

He puts his lips against my panties and I'm spiraling. Everything adds to my unraveling; the dimness in the closet, the knowledge that our peers are _just outside_ , the desperate friction of his mouth against the annoying fabric that keeps him from where I want him.

I'm not a great model of patience when I gasp, " _Off_."

He grins up at me, listening, sliding the panties down halfway, and I'm really not doing well with the patience, not at all, because I slide my hand down his jaw and bring him to the place where I need him.

The introduction of his mouth to my own warmth is devastating.

It's shocking. Electric. My knees weaken as his tongue sweeps and sweeps. The sandpaper of his cheeks against my thighs is a delicious, tormenting roughness. And he's he's _sucking_.

 _Holy fucking Merlin's socks._

My eyes are likely rolling straight back into my head. I'm trying with every ounce of might not to cry out, trying to remember that there is a party going on just outside the door. This proves more difficult with every second that passes, the whimpers flying from my throat dying in my mouth as I bite down on my tongue, the sounds flattening into muffled groans. My thighs shake with the fluster of oncoming ecstasy; I am utterly unsteady. My hands grip senselessly at his fingers splaying my hips. The deliberate slow of his licking his _sucking_ is an impossible torment.

"James," I manage to get out between labored breaths. "Don't _stop_."

He doesn't. He takes me higher and higher and higher until I think I've reached a height, then he somehow shows me another escalation, a taller height. He doesn't stop even when I bite a fist to keep from sobbing with pleasure. He's relentless. He's magic.

And finally, I'm _spent_.

As I come down, chest heaving, he pulls away. He replaces my panties, my jeans and slowly stands. I breathe slower and slower, trying to calm my heart, my mind, my rattling thighs. He smiles, because I'm telling him with my eyes that he took me somewhere beautiful. I pull him in for a kiss infused with wild gratitude, roping my arms around his neck.

I emerge and lay my forehead against his. He's smiling still, and I want to be with him again and then again. I am insatiable. He is magnetic.

"I think you probably should come to my place tonight."

I catch a sparkle of mischief in his eyes, despite the dimness of the light. "Can't get enough of me?"

He's entirely right. But I can't admit this, obviously. I pull away, slightly. "Pushing your luck, Potter?"

He laughs. His hands are soft at my sides. "I would never."

There's a lapse, and we're just looking at each other. This makes me nervous, that our eyes are locked, and we're touching, and I feel lost in him, lost to this moment. I'm afraid, abruptly. I don't know what it means. I think back to my earlier conversation with Marlene.

 _What are we?_

I decide to push it away. James breaks the silence. "I wouldn't be opposed to leaving immediately. I was having a rather dull time at this party until now."

"I'd have to agree with you on that," I say. "Just have to let my friends know. Meet me by the glass downstairs door, okay? Hopefully mum and dad have tucked in."

"Okay."

We detach from one another, and he reaches to unlock the door. But I'm insatiable, and I'm greedy, so I grab his hand and slide up to him for one last head-spinning kiss.

When I pull away he looks star struck, his eyebrows concaved near his nose.

"You're going to be the _death_ of me, Evans."


End file.
